


Lost Time

by susiephalange



Category: DC Extended Universe, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Conner Kent Has Feelings, Cutesy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Feelings Realization, Female Reader, First Dates, Fluff, Happy Harbor High School, High School, No Smut, Poor Reader, Poverty, Sexual Tension, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: As a child, Reader met Conner Kent in high school. As an adult, she meets him once more, and she can't help but wonder how she fits into his life as a superhero.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DustyLite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyLite/gifts).



> I just really, really, love Conner Kent. And re-watching _Young Justice_ didn't help my teeny-tiny obsession one bit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're just a poor kid, living out of her parent's caravan in Happy Harbour. Little do you know when a new kid, Conner, arrives at school, your life will never be the same again.

Nobody really liked High School. It was, for everyone, an awkward phase in which you were trying to get through unscathed, and you weren’t very good at that. While everyone else was working on being a great cheerleader, a nerdy enough geek, a good jock, or a skilled student. But after school, you didn’t want to burn out in a caravan to be forever forgotten in Happy Harbour, no. You wanted to be an artist, and, while there were the cliques of all sorts, you didn’t fit into the categories.

Thus, you, ________, were a freak.

It was okay, back in freshmen year. But now as a junior, the end in reach, you felt like all the eyes in the school were always on you and your binder full of doodles. It wasn’t helpful, either, that you had a habit of being a little flustered around the popular crowd; it wasn’t your fault you were shy. It made for many pranks, and no matter what you did, they never lessened off.

You were staying in after school, waiting for the photography club to meet on the school athletic field. They usually started at four thirty, but for some reason, the cheer squad were on the track. Sitting in the bleachers, drawing pad in hand, you worked a little sketch of the people you saw. While you usually drew faces in profile, it was a little harder to the side, and so removed. You tried to get a good sketch of Wendy Harris, but it just wasn’t working for you. After a few tries, you took your eraser to the page.

But that’s when you hear a _thwomp!_ and suddenly the boy who had been accompanying the recruit to the Bumblebees has fallen from the bottom step to the bleachers, and face first to the ground. He’s wearing a black tee, jeans, and army boots, and with a face full of dirt and messed-up hair, you pause, breath held.

You sit there, frozen where you’ve sat upon the bleachers, watching as the cheerleaders laugh at him, calling him names. It’s then when something in your chest tightens, and your breath comes out slowly, lips ajar. _Oh no,_ you think, _he’s cute_.

Later, when the cheer team have cleared the area, and the photography club gather around with their gear that you catch up with a fellow stranger to the common ground of friends and the game of popularity. Marvin White. But when you mention the guy to him, he shrugs, pulling the strap of his camera around his neck.

“Uh, I don’t know, ________,” he says, taking the lens cap off, “He and his friend Megan started today. They’re in our year.”

From your backpack, you took out your little flip phone, and opened the camera function. “Cool, White. Does he have a name, or just Megan…?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, Cameron? Conner? Why do you care, ________?”

“I don’t know, Marvin.” you shake your head, and before you go off to meet with the club leader, you turn to him, and whisper, “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? Or I’ll do something drastic.”

“Who knew freak wallflowers could be so scary?” Marvin grins, going to ruffle your hair. At the last minute, you shift away, and instead, he laces an arm around your shoulder as if you’re old friends. “Okay, ________,” he promises, “your secret’s safe with me.”

* * *

While you don’t mind history class, Mr. Carr doesn’t like it when people draw in the margins of his pop quiz papers. Which makes it your least-liked class of all. Too many times have you argued with him about it, too many times have you gotten detention for it, and too many times have your fellow classmates snickered behind your back about it. So today, instead of doodling to your imagination’s content upon the page, you take a biro to your skin.

“ _Ahem_ , ________,” Mr. Carr intones, narrowing his eyes at you. “If you were paying attention, you’d know that you’re paired with Mr. Kent for the group assignment.” He looks between you, and Conner, who sits three rows behind you, and groans. “Now, as everyone else had done, Miss ________, move beside your partner.”

There are giggles from classmates, and quietly with a roaring heat across your face and neck, you pack up your things into your arms and lug in three rows behind to Conner. He gives you a small nod, and wordlessly, passes a sheet of paper with the word _assignment brief_ written in a computerised font.

“I’m ________,” you tell him quietly.

The whispers increase, as does the shade of embarrassment upon your face. In daydreams, you had thought of any other scenario than this to introducing yourself. Where you’d appear to be a cool kid. Maybe slightly popular. Edgy? No, that wasn’t you. You were just… _you_. ________ ________, the kid whose parents on welfare couldn’t afford to buy you shoes in fourth grade, ________, who had outdated textbooks and reused everything.

He gives you a small smile. “I’m Conner.” He says, and looking past you, glares at a bully, “Are they bothering you?”

You shake your head, not wanting to cause a scene. “Please, let’s just – uh, focus on the assignment.” You read over the typeface, and say, “It says it’s for out of classroom time. Maybe we could meet at your place –,”

Conner shakes his head. “Can’t. My – uh, family don’t like friends over.”

You nod understandingly. “Yeah, same. Maybe we could meet at the library?” you suggest, and add quickly, “Are you free Saturday, after the football game?”

“Sure,” He says, making a note of it, just as the bell rings. “See you Saturday, ________.”

But, you did not see him Saturday. The other days of the week dragged on and on, your classes a hellish nightmare to get through, and yet, when Saturday arrived, and you waited for two hours after the football game out the front of the public library until the librarians came out and told you it was time to leave, you couldn’t help yourself. Deflated, in both expectation and pride, you made the walk home from the library to the caravan park, knowing what rumours would be made by Monday.

You kicked a rock as you walked, hands in your pockets, head low. You’d thought Conner Kent was different than the other kids. That he was an outcast, like you.

You were wrong.

* * *

Come Monday, you barely find the energy to pull yourself out of bed, but you do. It might be halfway through the first term, sure, but if there was one thing about you, it was that you weren’t a quitter. And so, you hitched a ride into town with your neighbour, Bob, and strode into the gates of the school like you had nothing to lose. You walked into homeroom, and then into first period history, and kept your eyes ahead when he entered the room.

“________,” he says, walking by your desk. Your eyes are to your page, where your pen, instead of drawing the doodle of the day, is taking notes from your textbook. “Hey, ________, I’m sorry about what happened. I had a family thing come up.”

“A family thing?” you glance to Conner, unsure. “So, you weren’t doing it to make fun of me?” you ask, having to get it out in the air.

He shakes his head. “We had a…reunion. In Metropolis. They’re big into last minute stuff, and I didn’t have your phone number to text –,”

You nod. “I get it.”

Conner frowns. “You’re not mad, are you? I get it, if you are.”

You hesitate, taking a breath, and then, instead of using the words you had intended with that breath, you breathe out. “I –,”

“Mr. Kent, Miss ________,” Mr. Carr enunciates your names as if you’re in trouble. You can just hear him tearing off a detention slip already, and you sit further in your chair. But instead, he says, “…talking about the group assignment?”

Conner nods, arms crossed. “Yes sir,” he declares.

Mr. Carr smiles, turning to the blackboard with a thin stick of chalk. “Don’t chat too long, class is about to start.” He glances over his shoulder to you, and adds, “It’s good to see you’re participating, ________,” he says, kindly. “If you keep this up, you’re on track for a _B_!”

Before he leaves to his desk, Conner passes you a folded note.

In block letters, you read, _LET ME MAKE IT UP TO YOU. CAFETERIA, LUNCH. MY TABLE._

When lunch rolls around, you’re hesitant; last time there was an invitation to sit with people, it ended with your food through your hair, your sketchbook stolen, and humiliation. But tray in hand, you see Conner at the back of the room, sitting with a girl with red hair. She looks a bit like the reruns of your Mom’s favourite show, _Hello, Megan!_ – in fact, come to think of it, she’s the new cheerleader. Before you can turn away and walk to your usual lunchtime haunt, they see you, and wave.

“Hey, ________,” Conner calls out.

Megan waves. “Oh, you’re ________? Conner’s told me so much about you!” She grins, waving you over to sit opposite her. “I’m Megan Morse.” She introduces. You frown, thinking back to when Marvin said they were friends. She’s literally the American dream girl, and here you are, wearing dorky second-hand clothes. “I better catch up with Wendy, we’ve got cheer practice this afternoon.” She gives you both a wide smile, and ruffles Conner’s hair. “Don’t wait up, I’ll get Uncle John to get me.”

Once Megan’s gone to the cheerleader’s table, you take the assignment brief from your bag. “I was thinking of splitting the work sort of fifty-fifty…” you begin, pointing out your notes. “…that way we get more covered. Is that okay?”

He nods. “Sure.”

* * *

Five years pass like agony. But the real pain is that in your entire body – you can’t quite remember what made you come back to your hometown but laying in the rubble of what used to be the third floor of the old steel factory, you’re trying not to cry. Your leg trapped, fire breaking out somewhere nearby you know this is the end. You came from a home of nothing, and just like any other background character, would always go back to nothing. In the morning, the papers would report you along with the others who had been in the building’s hourly tour as numbers dead, and not names.

“There’s still more people in there!”

Your breathing quickens, blinking. There’s people looking for survivors? Of course, there are. You live in a world with Batman, and Green Arrow, and the rest of the Justice League. You go to shout, to alert the person looking for you to your location, but your throat is dry, and all that comes out is a squawk. You almost expect it to be someone from the fire department, but, when you feel a pressure releasing from your leg, it’s not a firefighter.

“Conner?” you say, bleary.

You get a look at the person scooping you into his arms; he has the same dark hair, the same face. Except, you notice, before your eyes grow heavy, he’s wearing an _S_ on his chest like the Blue Boy-Scout of Metropolis.

 “Hold on, ________,” your hero says, moving to escape the crumbling building.

“Superboy,” you whisper, trying to stay awake. “Thank y-you.” But it’s no use, and, it’s all dark.

When you come to, you’re not in your dingy hotel room, or in afterlife. It looks like a government facility, or something underground hollowed out to be a place habitable by humans. It’s a bedroom, you come to realise; you’re on a bed, wearing a black t-shirt that isn’t yours.

You blink.

“Hello…?” you call out.

It’s then you remember the accident. You’ve been spending your days interning for the _Daily Planet_ newspaper, trying to chase stories to keep the rent paid and your electricity on. It’s not easy living on it, but when you pieced together a mystery that lead back home to Happy Harbour’s own old steel works factory, you thought you had the gold. Not a death wish. There had been a flash of light, and a laugh, and diving out of the way, you had narrowly escaped a bomb – just not the rubble.

“Hello?” you call out again. You go to move off the bed, but it’s then you realise your leg that had been trapped is discoloured with an array of bruises. “Ah,” you groan.

The door opens.

You thought it had been a dream, but no, it’s real – it’s Conner Kent, the boy you had a crush on in junior year of high school, and senior year too. He’s wearing the same shirt he wore when you saw him in the steel works building, and a soft frown.

“What are you doing up? You need rest.” He says.

You _harrumph_. “Still blunt as always, Conner.” You note, obeying his instruction. Not that you could do anything else. “So…have you always been a superhero?” you ask.

“Yes,” He nods sharply, and, taking a seat beside the bed, adds, “Can I get you anything?”

“Answers? Glass of water?” You shrug. “You were the only friend I really had, you know. They called me a freak.”

“They called me a freak too,” Conner ruminates, and gesturing to the side table, you see a mug of water. “But I am, I’m an experiment made from Superman’s DNA.” He gives you a wan smile, and says, “I haven’t seen you since graduation, what are you up to?”

“Not superhero stuff,” you reply.

He raises a brow.

“I’m a junior reporter for the _Daily Planet_ ,” you explain. “…but mostly a gopher. I thought if I chased the story, I’d get the attention I deserved in my workplace.”

Conner frowns, “It’s never that easy.” He blinks, “what about your art? You used to have a doodle pad, didn’t you?”

“No, I don’t really draw much these days. I’m a people-watcher.” You say, sipping your water. Your eyes widen, realising your notebook is nowhere to be seen. You run a hand into your hairline, defeated. “ _Oh no_ , my notebook!”

He shifts where he sits, pulling out a familiar faux leather-bound A5 notebook. “I checked out your notes, ________.” He turns the pages and shows you what he’s been looking at. You feel a blush take over your face – it’s a sketch of Superboy, from the first time you saw him on the TV nightly news. Conner flips more pages, more pictures of himself. “You’re really good, ________,” he says, voice small.

“Thank you, Conner,” you whisper.

A beat passes between the two of you, and he asks, “uh, could I take you out for lunch sometime? To make up for you being hurt.”

You giggle at the absurdity, “But – but you saved me!” you protest. “You don’t have to make up anything to me!”

He shrugs, “How about for lost time?” He says, getting out of his seat, to sit beside you on the bed.

“Sounds great, Superboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a second part coming soon, watch out for it!


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the last time you met with Conner, there comes a call at your place of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from @DustyLite :>
> 
> I really should be writing my creative pieces for my university course, but instead, I've written this. Haha.

Lunch with Conner Kent was supposed to be the end of the line. Or, you had assumed so, because you were just an insignificant person in comparison to everyone in the youth Justice League he worked with. You had returned to Metropolis after you were well enough to walk with medical aid – much to Conner’s displeasure – and a month after the incident, you were back at work, albeit, with a cast on.

It led to a re-shuffling of the lower-tier of the _Daily Planet_ office, and you were assigned a desk, while Steve was the one who got your old task of making coffee and fetching dry-cleaning. Three months had gone by, the cast off now, but you still had the desk. _Bonus_.

You had thought it ended with that lunch; you had banked on it being the end. You’d made sure to wear nice clothes – you’d still been at Happy Harbour, and hardly mobile, you couldn’t exactly hit the mall, so you’d borrowed a nice top from Artemis – and held polite conversation. You found out that Conner hadn’t really left the small town after school, well, other than the missions he performed. _Top secret_ , he had reminded you every so often when the familiar faces of Batman’s protégés walked by. He said _top secret_ but when nobody was listening, he told you about his pet – the robot, and the wolf – and all about stuff you hadn’t talked about as kids.

It had been a _wonderful_ lunch. Fantastic. Which was why it killed you to say your goodbyes to Conner, and return to everyday life in Metropolis, but, that was the way it was. If life was a video game, you were for sure an NPC that people skipped the dialogue for when they came to you – if you even had dialogue at all.

So, when you answered the desk phone at work on a rainy Tuesday, you were half-shocked to hear Conner’s voice answer your polite, _hello you’ve reached ________ at the Daily Planet, how may I take your call?_ with _are you free Friday?_ you freaked out.

“What do you mean, free? I mean, Friday?” you blinked, and, in a smaller voice, you say, “wait, Conner – why are you calling on this number?”

“I never got your cell,” he replies, straight to the point as always, “and all Su – Clark gave me was this when I asked. So, I figured…” he trailed off. “Anyway, Friday?”

You blinked. “Um, Friday…I don’t have anything planned,” you say, opening your calendar on the desktop. It’s then you notice your supervisor eying you strangely, and blinking, you say, for his benefit, “But to hear about your angle? Absolutely, I can pencil it in. Do you have a meeting place planned, or…?”

Conner chuckles at your last bit, the laugh as dry as ever. “You can write about it if you want. It’s just a Young Justice League thing, we’re all going for drinks at a club Bruce Wayne just opened in Midtown Gotham City.”

“Could you just repeat that address for me, sir?” you say, glancing to your supervisor as you see him nearing. “193 Arlington Way –,” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s either in California, or Georgia. Meet me at the comic book store a block from your apartment, at midday.”

“I’ll be sure to be discreet, sir, as privacy is our main policy here at the _Daily Planet_ ,” you said, and scribbling _Friday, midday_ on the notepad by the phone, your handwriting near-incomprehensible. “Thank you for your call.”

When you place the work landline back on its cradle, your bosses’ arm is on the table beside you, and he’s standing there, watching your face intently. He would be an intimidating man, if you let him be, but in truth, he’s a middle-aged backwater reporter who wears a toupee to cover his low self-esteem and preys on the weak in the workplace.

“Was that a tip, Ms. ________?” he’s not _asking_ ; it’s the tone of his voice that lets you know those six words that he’s _demanding_.

You nod, and in a level tone, reply, “A new contact called, asking for me,” you respond, tight smile on your lips. “I’ll need to take a half-day on Friday to meet with them.”

By your tone, he knows you’re demanding, and not asking, either, and with a swift nod, your boss recedes to his station on by the window, and the both of you return to what you were doing before the phone call. Except, while you complete your task, you cannot help but smile like an idiot for the rest of the day.

* * *

You’ve never experienced it before, but time seems to drag on until Friday. Wednesday is humid after the rain, and people in the office are upset about the lack of news for the week – you’re internally thankful for the lack of news, because it meant there wasn’t any more civil damage caused by the big-shot superheros and villains lately – and Thursday isn’t any better. Except for when you clock out at five, and when your new desk buddy – Dean? Deacon? – says _see you tomorrow!_ you respond with a cheery, “Monday for me. Have a lead for a story I’m meeting with tomorrow.”

Deacon whistles, clearly jealous. “What I’d give for a lead; I’m stuck writing about the benefits of Arkham Asylum for taxpayers in the greater Gotham-Metropolis area.” He pats you on the back as he walks by, and adds, “Don’t have too much fun!”

But on Friday, it’s hard _not_ to quash the happiness that’s quelling in the bottom of your stomach. Or is that last night’s dinner? Your nerves are untamed. Not really one for the dating scene, you’ve never had someone you’ve been out with before come back for a second date. And, on top of that, you’ve never had the opportunity before the spend time with the _whole_ Youth Justice League team. Just a handful, at different times in your life.

As you pick out an outfit for the day, you think back to the high school days when you didn’t know of any of the things that Conner did as Superboy. You haven’t seen Megan since high school, either, but, then again, you hadn’t seen many of the people from Happy Harbour after you up and left when graduation came around. Apart from the nerves of wondering if these superheroes would mind you being there, you were excited.

Which is what you told yourself when you stood by the comic book store on the corner, a block from your apartment. You start to wonder why Conner knew where you lived, but not your cell number, but that’s when you hear the dull roar of a motorcycle, pulling in front of where you stood.

“Need a ride?” Conner says, opening the motorcycle helmet’s visor.

You beam. “It’d be nice,” you reply, walking toward the bike. “Do you even need the helmet?”

He shrugs, undoing the helmet, and passing it to you. “No, but it looks cool. Get on, we’re all meeting at that place in twenty minutes.”

Your eyes widen under the helmet, as you straddle the motorcycle, sitting behind Conner. “Twenty minutes?” you repeat. “Didn’t you say the place was in Midtown Gotham?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t speed,” he says, turning to you.

If he was one to grin, now would be the time you saw a winning smile. Instead, Conner chuckled, and motioned for you to hold onto his waist. As he made the bike’s engine grow louder before pulling out, your heart raced, and you wondered if he knew this was the first time you’d ever ridden a motorcycle, and, you wondered how your just-healed leg would do with it. But, you crossed the bridge and made headway from Metropolis to Gotham just fine, and by the time on your watch, it took only a minute less than Conner had said.

“Not speeding?” you asked, as he shut the engine off. He shook his head and looked away, and laughing, you disembarked the bike. “Anyways, are the team here to celebrate anything today?” you wondered. “Y’know, just asking. In case I have to write something about all of this.”

Conner walked toward the entrance, you in step. “Just a victory against a foreign terrorist in Bialya.”

You nod, understanding. “Queen Bee. That happened a month ago, didn’t it?” you asked, following Conner into the bar, closing the door behind you. “Sorry, I’m always reading stuff, don’t mind Know-It-All me.”

“No, it’s nice.” Conner shakes his head, “I like hearing you talk.” He clears his throat, and adds, “The victory against Queen Bee did happen a month ago, but since, there has been a few other…more top-secret missions that various members of the team had been sent on. We put off the celebration until now for regrouping.”

You’re about to ask another question, but that’s when you recognise Artemis’ ponytail and Meghan’s laugh at a semi-large table by the bar. There’s faces you recognise from the media, and many more you don’t, and while they’re all taking together like a large family, your legs still, frozen where you stand.

Why had you agreed to come? Was it just because of that child-like crush you had on Conner? You didn’t belong here with these people. You were just a measly junior reporter. A wallflower. These guys were superheroes –

“There’re two free seats between Kaldur'ahm and Dick.” Conner says, but it’s not his voice which shocks you from your thoughts. It’s the warm feeling in your hand, and looking down, you see that Conner has laced his fingers with yours and holds your hand firmly. He clears his throat, “Shall, er, we?”

You nod, your legs only animate at his touch, and you slide into the seat which positions you with Conner on your left, and Dick Grayson on your right. He’s wearing shades that were fashionable in the 1990’s even though you’re all indoors, and he gives you a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you finally, ________.” He offers his hand to shake, which you do. If you didn’t know he worked alongside the Batman of Gotham city, you would assume that Dick was just being polite. “M'gann told me you went to school together?”

You nod, and seeing Megan across the table, give her a wave. She’s seated beside a man who looks a little like the love interest from _The Shape of Water_ and she gives you a wave. “Yeah, we were in the same year at Happy Harbour High School. Were you a grade above?” you ask.

Dick shakes his head. “I went to Gotham Academy.”

You blink, “Wow.” In your nervousness, you can’t help but laugh. Dick notices this and changes the subject to something a little less ostentatious, and one you’re familiar with; the news. When he asks for your opinion on the current events, however, you’re interrupted by Conner.

“Uh, here’s a menu, ________, Night – Dick.” he says, passing you both a copy.

“Nightdick.” Dick repeats, a smile on his face. “I’ll remember that for my next blind date.”

You turn to Conner, looking at his menu. “What are you thinking of getting?” you ask him, and glancing at his menu, you catch a glimpse at the prices that accompany the light food and alcohol. It’s then you blanch. “Holy cow, fifteen dollars for a shot of vodka?” You whisper, horrified.

Conner must have heard you – of course he heard you, he’s _Superboy_ – and at that, he draws an arm around you, and pulls you closer to his side. You’re as still as a living statue as he lowers his lips to your ear, and whispers, “Don’t worry, the team’s paying.”

“It better be as much vodka as that [vine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaXYaiyqGd0).” You retort. He gives you a confused look at that, and you add, “I’ll show you the video later.”

But as soon as you say that, Kaldur'ahm has the short clip already loaded on his phone, and the two of them watch the vine as a waitress comes around taking orders. Soon enough, you’ve all ordered, and as the night goes on, the team becomes chattier – the fish-man is called La'gaan, and he’s an Atlantean like Kaldur'ahm. You find out there’s _two_ Flashes – one who you already knew of, Wally, but then there’s Bart Allen, grandson of Barry Allen (which confuses you, because Barry Allen hasn’t had children as far as you know as a journalist, but you don’t question it). You even make conversation with the protégé of Wonder Woman and find that Cassie had the best funny stories of everyone.

It isn’t until you realise that your wristwatch reads a quarter to midnight that you really should be leaving, and as soon as you say the word, Conner’s gathered his jacket, and you’re saying your goodbyes to the team. The night air is fresh upon your face, and even though the bar is in the better side of the city, you stay close to Conner’s side as you walk to his motorcycle. You share no words embarking the bike, your hands clutching his sides as the engine roars back toward the streets of Metropolis that you’ve learned to love. But as he pulls up across from your apartment block, he turns to you.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” He asks, helping you unclasp the helmet. It’s not that you need help for the simple task, it’s because of the mixture of tired and the drinks you imbibed has made your fingers fumble. “I –,”

You nod, looking into his eyes. In the dull glow of the streetlights, his blue eyes are just as cerulean as the daytime. “It was a great night.” You reply, watching as he takes the helmet under his armpit. You’re about to say something sensible, perhaps offer him to stay the night, or, ask about something for your article, but instead, you blurt out, “How come you knew where I lived, but not my cell number?”

He stands there for a second, mute. “You want to know?” He asks you, quietly.

“Yeah,” you reply. “…if it’s not embarrassing.”

He shrugs at your words. “Not embarrassing…I, um, I heard you.” He says. You frown, unsure what that means, and Conner elaborates. “I heard your heartbeat, all the way from Mount Justice.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s…that’s a long way.” You conclude.

Conner hesitates. “I guess so.” It’s then a wind sweeps the street, pushing the fallen leaves and trash on the sidewalk five feet from where it previously lay. The wind seeps in your clothes, under your skin, and unbidden, you shiver. “You’re cold,” he states, and taking your hand, Conner walks you toward the foyer of your apartment building.

“Conner?” you ask, your tired voice making his name sound like a song. He hums in response, and you wonder aloud, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” he replies.

“What are we?” you ask.

His hand hovers at the door handle, still. Hands still interlocked, you squeeze his fingers lightly, and spurred to action, he opens the door, and lets you both into building where you can finally feel your nose once again.

“Conner?” you repeat, wondering. “What are we?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m half Kryptonian –,”

You shake your head at his response and unlace your fingers from holding his hand. “No, not biology,” you tell him. Sluggishly, in your tiredness, you move toward the wall where the elevator hides behind shiny trapdoors and call for it.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

You blink, turning to see him. Even though you’ve had a few to drink tonight, and you’re aching to take off your shoes and fall into bed, under your comforter, the sight of Conner Kent makes your knees grow weak. How is it he always looks so handsome, like a model whose designer is showcasing alternative streetwear? How is it that he’s so perfect, and yet, he’s here? With you, the ex-high school wallflower?

“Us.” You say, simply. “As people. As friends, or…”

Behind you in those metal doors, the elevator cries out its little song, the doors opening like the maw of a hungry metal beast. You wait to hear Conner’s answer, but, when there is none, you turn, deflated, and enter the elevator. A _goodnight_ sits upon your lips, but, just as the doors begin to shut, he rushes forth, and clambers into the elevator with you.

“Conner?” you whisper.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore,” he says simply.

There’s a look in his eyes that could make a disbeliever believe, a broken young woman begin to heal. You turn to the buttons on the side, and pressing your floor, you barely keep it together as you turn to him. But barely keeping together you do, and at once, you move in synchronisation with Conner, and he with you, and the both of you collide in a sort of passion. It’s your first kiss in years, and yet, it feels like the first kiss you’ve ever had because of how it makes you feel inside. Your arms are tight around his body, his scent filling your nose, and you barely register when the elevator stops at your level.

“This is my –,” you say, breaking away from his embrace, but, Conner follows from the lift, and the both of you stand in the small foyer between the three apartments, silent. “I – I can’t believe we just did that.” you breathe.

Conner nods. “But we did it.”

From your purse, you fish out your keys, and move toward the door of your apartment. But in doing this, you see Conner retreating to the elevator, hand about to press the button which will cast him downstairs, away.

“Where are you going?” you ask him.

He’s silent, because the both of you know that by him leaving, he’s to return to the mountain he lives in, in Happy Harbour, and it’ll be some time again that he’ll contact you because of the clash of your schedules.

“Don’t go,” you whisper.

“But I –,” he goes to say, but you interrupt.

“Stay the night,” you breathe, barely sure of the words, but, at the same time, mean them with all your heart. “Stay. Let’s make up for lost time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Mama Mia_ voice* DOT DOT DOT !!!
> 
> Anyways, don't ask me to write another part of this because I'm tired and I don't feel like it. And we know that after the last bit, they ARE gonna bang, so, let's just leave that to our imaginations bc I do **not** write smut and I do not want to create smut for _Young Justice_ , of all the fandoms. 
> 
> Anyways. Hope you gutter cretins, my precious readers enjoyed this part.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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